


Side Adventures of a Thangorodrim Vampire Who Hasn't Died Yet

by Emeritusnail



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, Grimdark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-26 15:14:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9908318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emeritusnail/pseuds/Emeritusnail
Summary: He is a relic of an older time. A vampire. A construct and receptacle for a dark and terrible power. Once he was an elf.Now there is no memory, and the histories of the land flicker as he forgets even more. Beneath his travels he is motivated by lust for power, searching endlessly a gradually-dwindling world for even a glimpse of his origins. He has embraced his fate in hopes to redesign it.Meanwhile, people are wonderful distractions. So are things. Occasionally, friends.And he fucks up repeatedly. A lot. Long years of rediscovery have not prevented Yualië, as he has named himself, from very mortal moments. Embarrassments abound.This is a collection of snippets of his life that are not present in the fic I am writing.Written in multiple perspectives.





	

The elf sleeps peacefully until something surprises him. 

He mutters threats while the shadows of the room turn inward. The darkness hugging the walls and spotting the floor whisper softly in echoes and laments. While arguing with them, the elf sheds his skin to you, becoming someone else. He’s chittering next, standing on a table, and stripping while the wood decays beneath his feet.

He likes to feel tall and sexy, you think easily.

When everything crashes around him, he screeches in old tongues how he’ll fart and piss on everything you eat. He breaks a few things while a phantom of the past appears, flung from the memory of a memory.

The shade of a woman flickers and blows raspberries until the necromancer’s eyes flutter shut, where it dissipates into dust and anxiety.

You, the bystander, are involved the moment your attention is snatched by the lingering otherness in the room

  
The suddenness either way is random, not quite ghostly but not imaginary either. Everything is muddled in the inexplicable chance of bumping into a stranger that's tinged with that particular negative awareness they don't like you.

But the dead remain entombed within memories, acting and reacting.

Conversations happen. You finds yourself fading into a numbing fog of consciousness, your surroundings ignorable. It calls to you. Within this atmosphere you slip slowly into the powerful, sleepy embrace of a half-coherent darkness.

You wind up awake, several days later, with part of a limb missing that’s been healed and stitched shut. A stump. There’s polite letter tagged to your shirt, as well as the taste of grass and blood in your mouth.

Moving on into your life with the sense of loss, you see flickers of something out of the corner of your eye, but it’s never there long enough to follow.

One day, you find yourself sitting outside during a dark storm, enjoying the energy hanging in the air and the rolling, black clouds above.

It’s close but not close enough to that one time that still itches in your mind and under your skin after days, weeks, months. That moment of power, the teetering edge into unmaking. 

You cannot recreate that.

To unbecome, to unwind oneself from the flesh and mind of your history. There is an ache deep your bones to slither into those jaws.

You wonder, knowing the truth yet still unsure by a kernel, if this is an empathic power or a curse.


End file.
